Fractured
by mel60
Summary: Yet another post 4x19 fic - although it's not directly related. Defining moments for D/L. Rated T for swearing.
1. Nothing is taking me down

Disclaimer: Not mine. I don't own the show, the characters, the plot, the words, etc. Just borrowing.

**A/N:** I'm not a writer, but I am a buckler to pressure - especially when the one that pressures is the lovely **notesofwimsey**. So, here it is. A huge thanks to **Yemam2422** for the beta and the all around genius.

Fractured

Chapter 1: Nothing is taking me down except you, my love

In that moment, when the door was slammed shut in her face, she knew. She knew that she was never going to be enough. Not for him, not for anyone. The thought had always been wriggling around in the back of her mind, in the back of her soul; whispering, shouting at her, telling her that she was not enough. But she used work, and him, to drown it out.

Now, however, that voice, that feeling, was all that she had. And it was right. She was not enough. Not enough to get him. Not enough to keep him. Not enough to help him. Never enough.

She really shouldn't have expected anything else. She wasn't enough to save her friends all those years ago.

She wished she was. Lord, how she wished she was.

She knew that people thought she was strong. She pretends to be, tries to be. But she's not. If she were, this wouldn't be breaking her the way that it is. He wouldn't be breaking her.

A horn honking in the distance startled her back to reality. Blinking rapidly, she looked around and noticed that she was just approaching her building. Huh. She couldn't even remember how she had gotten there. The last thing she remembered was his face and how his eyes were completely full of emptiness.

A breeze blew her long bangs into her face. She ran her shaky hands through her hair, securing it behind her ears. She reached for a chunk of hair that refused to be pushed back and found it to be stuck to her cheek. She realized, then, that she was crying. She looked around, more or less satisfied that no one had noticed her. Thankful, she picked up her pace and ran up the stairs and into her building.

Once inside her apartment, she kicked off her shoes and padded over to the kitchen sink. She turned on the water, letting it run over her hands, her wrists – welcoming the slight pain from the cold water. She cupped her hands, catching the water and then splashing it over her face. Gasping and coughing, she hoped the icy sting of the water would cause a little clarity in her mind. Forgoing the towel, she turned off the faucet and made her way over to her couch, her face dripping, her teeth chattering from the cold. She pulled her hands up into her long sleeves and used them to wipe her face, letting out a long shaky breath that she didn't know she was holding.

She never thought it would come to this; sitting in the dark, crying. Well, that wasn't entirely true. She feared it would come to _exactly _this. But that was before Montana, and before his pool table, and before she had completely lost herself in him.

She felt dark. She felt empty, but raw, as if someone had literally reached inside of her and turned her heart inside out. How had she let this happen? She was supposed to protect him, protect his heart. She had done nothing but fail him ever since they met. From letting his best friend get blown up, to almost getting herself blown up. From breaking his heart and pushing him away for nearly a year, to almost getting him killed because she didn't wake up in time to work her own shift. Everyday led to some way in which she had failed him.

The tears and trembling gave way to guttural sobs, as she curled up into a ball on her hundred-dollar, thrift store couch. She'd hoped that her tears would serve as some sort of baptism, washing away the sins of being completely inadequate and unable to help him the way he helped her. Feelings of total self-pity washed all over her – paralyzing her, numbing her.

A strange vibration against her hip startled her and then disappeared as quickly as it came. Her phone. She was ashamed and disgusted that she immediately thought that it was Danny calling to apologize. She wasn't going to answer it. Absolutely no good could come of answering it, no matter who it was.

Shit. Wasn't she still technically on call?

Fuck.

The call, having long since gone to voice mail, was forcing her to stop wallowing, and quite frankly, she wasn't sure that she wanted to. She once again used her sleeve to wipe the wetness off of her face. Sitting up and pulling her phone off her belt, she wondered what would be the worst that could happen if she pretended like the call never came. She sat, in silence, staring at her phone like it would tell her all of the right things to do and say to make everything right, letting the light from it illuminate her entire apartment.

The vibrating started again and she gave a little yelp of surprise as the phone jiggled in her hand.

Work.

Not Danny.

She took a deep breath and hit the talk button.

"Monroe," she said as authoritatively and unemotionally as she possibly could.

"Lindsay? You alright?" The concern she heard in Flack's voice told her that she didn't even come close to pulling off unemotional or authoritative.

She cleared her throat, hoping that Flack would be dumb enough to believe that that was the reason her voice sounded so pathetic.

"What's up?" She countered, answering a question with another question in yet another lame attempt to throw Flack off her trail.

"DB found on the corner of 27th and Pine. You ok to go?"

She cleared her throat again, hoping that it didn't sound like she was overcompensating. "I'll be right there," she shot out before quickly hanging up the phone. There was no way he bought that. He was a fucking detective for Christ's sake.

She sat on the couch for another moment, trying in vain to collect herself, to get some semblance of calm. She could do this. She was a goddamn professional. She had been doing this long before she met Danny, long before her life became some sort of cosmic joke. She was too fucking stubborn to let this get in the way of her work. Lindsay Monroe, from Bozeman, Montana DID NOT fucking roll over and die for a guy.

With that as her mantra, she stood up, albeit on shaky legs, and headed towards her bedroom to put on some dry clothes. She wore all black, using it like some kind of body armor, as if looking tough was going to make her tough. She went into her bathroom, where she washed her face, once again in cold water, this time to try to hide the fact that she was weak, that she spent the last hour, or more, crying. She applied her makeup very liberally and brushed a couple of small snags out of her hair. Finally satisfied, she made her way out of her apartment and to the crime scene.


	2. I could survive, but I don't want to

Disclaimer: Still not mine...

**A/N:** I really can't thank you all enough for your wonderful words of encouragement. What an ego boost! And deepest thanks to **Yemam2422**, who inspires me completely. Not only is she an amazing beta, but she is an amazing writer as well. Check out her new Flack/Angell story Complicated Kisses.

**Chapter 2:** I could survive, but I don't want to....

From the moment he slammed the door on her, he felt immediately better. More than that, he felt relieved. At least this was one thing in his life that he could say he did right. He saved someone's life. Not the small, innocent life that he was supposed to save. No, that life was gone for good and nothing could change that. Of that he was painfully aware.

The life he saved was no less important, however, than the one lost. The life he saved was beautiful and graceful and extraordinary. And it was more critical to do all that he could to keep it protected -from him.

Because, make no mistake, he was dangerous. He was dark and volatile, misery personified, full of revulsion. He was quicksand. He was like a plague on everyone who knew him. And the worst part was he didn't give a fuck.

No, he didn't give a fuck, except for this one thing. This one life. Her life. Her life, which might as well be his life. And honestly, if he really thought about it, her life had been his life for much longer than either of them would like to believe.

That was why he felt nothing but immense relief at the sound of the door slamming closed.

Then it hit him. It hit him with the force of a building imploding. It hit him so hard he had to brace himself against the door to keep from falling; from imploding himself.

She was gone. Really gone. And she wasn't coming back. Ever. He tried to draw a deep breath; hoping, trying to make this somehow make sense again, make this ok. Make his decision to shut her out feel like it was supposed to – good. Noble. Fucking amazing!

If he could only catch his breath. He was fucking breathing underwater. He slammed his fist against the wall and immediately went to seek his salvation.

Like an oasis, the bottle sat on the kitchen counter, waiting, wanting to be used. He grabbed a glass, because he was not that far gone. He refused to let himself be that far gone. Yet. The lid was unscrewed and discarded over his shoulder and the bottle immediately emptied into his glass.

He had it down in two quick swallows. It wouldn't be enough. He was sinking. He needed more. He searched. He searched for another bottle. He searched like it was the evidence that would break the case. He searched like his apartment was a fucking crime scene.

Who was he kidding? His apartment was a crime scene. He had massacred someone there. He had reached his bare hands into her chest and pulled out her big, vivacious heart.

And then he danced in her blood.

And the truth was this couldn't have even been called a crime of passion. There was no passion involved. It was all premeditated. It was cold and calculating and God damn it, he needed another drink!

He saw it, like a beacon in the cupboard over his refrigerator. He stopped himself. Was he really that desperate? He grabbed the bottle around the neck, hesitantly, like it would come alive and bite him. He read the label – like it mattered. But if he was dancing in her blood, the least he could do is drink a toast to her. Celebrate what she used to be, who she used to be. Because she was gone now.

He grabbed his glass, he didn't have a proper one for the drink, but it hardly mattered now. He seized the bottle, forcefully this time, and pulled the cork out with a resounding 'pop.' He filled his glass with the thick red liquid and the memories, along with the smell, assaulted him.

It was her first case back, in more ways than one. Yes, it was the first case since she had gotten back from Montana, but it was also the first case where the real Lindsay was back. No more scared, tentative, quiet Lindsay. This Lindsay was the one who carried a knife with her to a crime scene. This Lindsay was the one who tackled people twice her size. This Lindsay was the one that ate wasp tamales. This Lindsay was his Lindsay. His Montana.

He remembered how working this case, this fucking cockroach case, made him feel like he could breathe again. He lifted the glass up to his lips, daring himself to taste.

He remembered how she was the one that spotted the fake wine label. And when he questioned her apparent knowledge on the subject she had replied, "We're more than just beer and buffalo burgers, Messer." And he loved her more.

Could he do it? Could he taste this wine from a glass instead of from her soft, beautiful lips?

He closed his eyes , took a deep breath and tipped the glass. The taste coated his tongue and it was wrong. So wrong. But that just made his resolve stronger. He drank more. And more. Until all taste was lost. And the memories faded. And he could breathe again.

He did the right thing. Of this he was now certain.


End file.
